


knit, purl

by wintersofts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), a little bit of post-timeskip content but not much, am i yeeting it into the world anyway? yes, is this a mess? yes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersofts/pseuds/wintersofts
Summary: Byleth knits, and Dimitri is intrigued.(a look at Byleth and Dimitri's relationship through the months—and beyond.)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 15
Kudos: 232





	knit, purl

**Author's Note:**

> currently un-beta'd but we will get there soon!

_**GREAT TREE MOON** _

The new professor brings scarce few belongings with her to the monastery. 

Dimitri’s own quarters are bare in comparison to those of his fellow students. Perhaps it is not befitting of the future king of Faerghus to live so meagerly, but he prefers a spartan existence to the alternative. There is precious little he saw fit to bring to the academy from his home in Fhirdiad. Lances, swords, an eclectic collection of books—nothing personal, nothing fragile, nothing priceless. Dimitri’s attachments have always been to weapons of war over trinkets; they suit him better. 

He feels as if he has found a kindred spirit in Byleth, but when asked, she only says, “Life as a roaming mercenary makes it hard to own things.” There is nothing in her voice to betray how she feels, no discernible emotion Dimitri can take his cue from. It is… _unsettling_ , but he won’t allow it to color his opinion of her. 

“Forgive me, Professor,” he says immediately. At times it can be difficult to see past his own privileged status. “I didn’t mean to imply—“

She waves his apology off with a flick of her hand. “I have everything I need with me, anyway.” Yet from what he can see, all Byleth has to her name is a sword, a coat, and a bag with some yarn and two curious stiletto-like blades. He’d offered earlier to help her move her things under the assumption there would be a lot more to contend with, but Byleth easily manages to carry her belongings into her quarters by herself. 

Dimitri wonders, then, why she accepted his offer. He’s not done much more than stand around and ask questions all afternoon, with Byleth continuing to indulge his curiosity with unfailing patience. 

“What manner of weapons do you have there, Professor?” he asks after a pause, gesturing to the bag and the two gleaming implements now sitting on Byleth’s desk. “I don’t recall seeing you use those in our battle against the bandits.” 

Byleth turns and blinks. It is a deceptively slow sort of movement. Dimitri’s seen her on the battlefield; he knows just how fast her reflexes are. “These are knitting needles,” she says flatly. Pulling one out, she runs a finger along its length with an imperceptibly wry twist to her lips. “But I suppose I could kill a man with them if I really tried.” 

“Oh.” The one in her hand does end in a rather sharp point, Dimitri supposes. He does not doubt Byleth’s lethality. 

As faint as it is, her expression fades back into its characteristic neutral mask as she carefully returns the knitting needle to her bag. “I was joking.”

“Oh,” Dimitri repeats. He coughs into his fist, hoping it can be taken as a chuckle. “Very funny, Professor.” 

“I can see you’re positively blue with laughter.”

This he does chuckle at, unbidden, and Byleth blinks once more as if to ask what he finds so amusing. Regaining his composure, Dimitri shakes his head and sinks into a bow. “I will leave you to… unpack.” 

“Ah,” Byleth says, her hands disappearing into the arms of her coat. Then—“Thank you,” so softly he might’ve missed it had he not been waiting for her to continue. It is not the fond farewell one might hope for, but Dimitri feels a strange swell of warmth in his chest nonetheless as he departs. 

*** * * * ***

_**HARPSTRING MOON** _

On days where they have no classes, Dimitri sometimes finds the professor seated on the steps outside of her quarters, absorbed in her knitting. Her movements are swift, precise, almost graceful, and he marvels at how deftly she can wield both a sword and a knitting needle in equal measure. His admiration for her only grows with each passing week, and he counts himself blessed that she’d made the choice to lead the Blue Lions above the other houses. 

He cannot tell precisely _what_ it is that Byleth is engaged in making today, but the vibrant green colour of the yarn and its curious shape is enough to draw Dimitri into her orbit. 

“Professor, where did you learn to knit?” he asks. He cannot imagine the life of a mercenary would be conducive to picking up hobbies such as this one. It is a struggle to picture Jeralt teaching Byleth, both exhausted and bruised from their latest battle, to knit under the light of the stars at a temporary camp.

Byleth glances up without pausing and acknowledges him with a nod of her head before returning her attention to her work. “I don’t know,” she says plainly. “We were on the road a lot. Seemed like a useful skill to learn, but I can’t remember who taught me.” The clicking of her knitting needles stops abruptly. “Another mercenary in my father’s band, maybe?”

“Not your mother?” Dimitri regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth. It is too personal, too probing, and he should know better than to overstep his bounds with his new instructor. 

Byleth doesn’t say anything for a moment, but her shoulders stiffen. “My mother died shortly after I was born.” She resumes knitting, then curses under her breath as her broken concentration leads to a dropped stitch. It is the sort of word that has Dimitri blushing, but he supposes it would be common enough in a mercenary’s vocabulary. 

“I apologize for bringing up unpleasant topics.” It is a fine day otherwise, too fine to dwell on the dead. They are never far from Dimitri’s mind, but Byleth doesn’t deserve to be forced to contend with the demons of the past solely because of his intrusion into her peace and quiet. He would rather ask for forgiveness and change the subject than say, _my_ _mother died too_.

The silence between them is only punctuated by the now-familiar clicking of her needles until Byleth suddenly breaks it with, “It gives me something to do.” Dimitri starts at the sound of her voice, angling his head down to meet her eyes. They are a brilliant blue, and for the first time, he senses something almost familiar in their depths. “It helps, a little, to have something I’m skilled at that isn’t connected to fighting or death.” 

“I see. I understand.” Dimitri does not. Not entirely, and yet he desperately wants to. 

Byleth’s gaze turns heavy, leaden with words that remain unspoken. It would be simpler if he could read her. Is that disappointment on her face? Sympathy? Is he projecting, wanting to see something that simply isn’t there because the professor has more important things to care about? He waits for more to come from her, but Byleth only bids him farewell and retreats to her room. 

*** * * * ***

_**GARLAND MOON** _

“Is knitting much like sewing, Mercedes?” Dimitri asks. His eighth bent needle falls from his hands. Delicate work is not his forte, and he’s beginning to think his torn cuffs are eternally doomed. Before he can cause further damage, Mercedes is kind enough to take the burden of needlework from his hands with a soft laugh.

After spending a few minutes undoing Dimitri’s mess, she says, “I’ve seen the professor knit.” It’s said casually enough for Dimitri to dismiss it as an idle observation, were he not aware that Mercedes can be incredibly astute at times. “Is that why you’re curious?” 

“No! No, not solely because of—” he stops. Perhaps it is best not to protest too much. “I only wondered in passing if I would be any more skilled at it than I am at needlework.” 

Mercedes’ smile is warm. “The professor might be able to answer that better.” 

“I fear I might be bothering her with my questions.” Byleth rarely seems annoyed when he accosts her with inquiries about training or lessons, but personal questions still feel like crossing an ill-defined line. 

“She seems happy to make time for you,” Mercedes says gently.

He wonders if that is truly the case. “I… would not want to monopolize her attention.” 

“Is it monopolizing if she chooses to give it to you freely?” Mercedes points out, not unkindly. Her gaze is comforting, without judgement, but Dimitri feels embarrassed by the thought regardless that he bends another needle in his haste to change the subject. 

*** * * * ***

_**BLUE SEA MOON** _

“We are in the middle of _summer_ , Professor.” As the days grow longer, Dimitri faces one of his greatest foes: the incessant heat. The academy’s summer uniform offers some respite from the weather, but he feels as if he is stuck in the jaws of Ailell.

Training is a challenge in these conditions, one any true knight should relish in order to prepare themselves to fight wherever and whenever the occasion demands, but Dimitri finds himself lingering by the professor’s quarters on the way to the training grounds—whether out of a reluctance to spar or or the chance to speak to her outside the context of class and training, he’s not sure.

As always, Byleth is seated on the steps with her knitting, lips pursed in concentration. He’s seen more of her completed projects now, can catch a glimpse of a stockpile of hats and scarves and gloves growing in the corner of her room through the open door. He would say she is preparing for a blizzard, but the sticky heat banishes all thoughts of snow from his mind. 

“What are you doing with wool amidst all this heat?” he continues, and Byleth glances up, her cheeks flush—from the temperature or from something else, Dimitri does not know—but it is endearingly _human_. 

“I’m preparing for the winter,” she says, but he’s never heard her sound so unsure. Dimitri does not point out that winter is many months away. A moment later, she slumps forward to rest her arms on her knees. “I may be under some stress.” The confession doesn’t seem to sit right. Byleth is not one for displays of vulnerability. Yet here she is, knuckles white, looking impossibly lost. “Do you ever feel as if—as if you’re not prepared for what people are asking of you?”

“Often,” Dimitri admits readily. 

“The burden of nobility,” she responds, with a dry laugh. “You must be used to it.” 

“If you want to talk, I am here for you, Professor.” Offering advice or a comforting shoulder to lean on are not things he is particularly comfortable with, but it would not be right to abandon Byleth in her time of need. If she does have a need. For her, Dimitri will make an exception. 

Hesitation flits across Byleth’s face before her expression settles into quiet resignation. “It wouldn’t be very professorly of me.” 

“Ah.” The boundaries between professor and student are ones he feels the bite of all too keenly sometimes, even if Dimitri does not look at Byleth the same as Professor Hanneman or Professor Manuela. She is still his instructor, still his superior in all matters at the academy. It is hard to remember that sometimes, however. 

“In any case, you’ll be begging for something wooly when winter arrives,” Byleth adds, eager to move past the subject. She lifts her mass of yarn with pride, and Dimitri accepts it with a smile.

“Such as this… pouch?”

There is a glint in her eyes as she snatches it back from Dimitri’s hands, rapping his knuckles with one of her knitting needles. “It’ll be a pair of socks, eventually,” she sniffs. “And for that, I won’t let you have them. Go ahead and freeze, Your Highness.”

“I’m more likely to expire due to the heat first, Professor.” He pauses, inclines his head to the side as Byleth smiles—barely, but he notices it. “You were making it for me?”

“Well,” Byleth flounders. “Not for _you_ in particular, but for my fri—my students.”

“Your fri—students would thank you.” Perhaps Dimitri is floundering as well, but he blames it on the heat. The heat, and the small hum escaping Byleth’s mouth as she turns back to her knitting. It is a pleasant sound. Dimitri takes his leave for the training grounds shortly after, feeling reinvigorated. 

*** * * * ***

_**VERDANT RAIN MOON** _

“Teach me, Professor.”

“You’re asking me to hold a seminar, Your Highness?” With a small crease between her brows, Byleth flips to the month’s schedule in her journal. “Professor Hanneman is scheduled for today, but I can see what I can do next week—” 

“I didn’t mean—” When he’d swept into the library in search of Byleth, he’d blurted his request out without thinking too carefully about its phrasing. Byleth’s earnest efforts to organize something makes him feel tempted to let her believe he was inquiring about a seminar. It is less embarrassing than the alternative, all of a sudden, but he’s come too far to back out now. “Knitting,” Dimitri clarifies. “I was talking about knitting.” 

“Ah.” Byleth pulls away from her journal, blinking in surprise. “You want to—Your Highness, this is—“

“A useful skill, as you said earlier.” Delicate work is the bane of his existence, but the practical uses of learning how to knit outweigh the potential mortification at demonstrating to Byleth how inept he can be when it comes to doing anything but swinging a weapon. And there is Byleth herself, at her most serene while knitting. Dimitri wants that for himself. If anyone could teach him, it would be her. “Faerghus is quite cold, Professor.”

Byleth is quiet, contemplative. Dimitri waits, wondering if he is asking for too much, wondering if Byleth will finally say no to one of his selfish requests. How greedy of him to demand more of her time and energy when she has already given him more than he deserves. 

But she says none of that, only nods in acquiescence. “Then—I’d be happy to teach you.” There is a small smile on her face as she rubs her chin in thought—anticipation? Amusement? “I’ve never taught someone to knit before.”

“You’ll do a fine job.” The professor’s instruction has always been simple to grasp. Dimitri cannot imagine why this would be any different. “Though I may not be a model student in this area. Please don’t think less of me.”

“I could never,” Byleth says, her gaze resolute.

Something about Byleth makes Dimitri loath to disappoint her. He makes a silent promise to himself to never give her cause to waver. 

*** * * * ***

_**HORSEBOW MOON** _

There is a ball of blue yarn sitting in Dimitri’s room, with a well-used, rusty pair of ancient knitting needles sticking out of it. He’d broken so many of them during his infrequent lessons that Byleth eventually elected to remove anything ‘of quality’ out of reach, and instead handed him the pair she’d first learned to knit on. “If you damage these, I will be extremely disappointed.” It was not delivered as a threat, per se, but Dimitri has been very careful with them since. 

_Knit, purl, knit, knit, purl_ —there is a soothing rhythm to knitting, like practicing forms or dancing. It is oddly calming to block everything else out and focus solely on this, building something bit by bit, even if he often has to backtrack to fix his mistakes. He lacks the skill of Byleth, the assured ease with which she approaches even the most complicated of patterns, but Dimitri refuses to give up halfway. Or a quarter of the way. He is still a beginner, still woefully clumsy, but his mishaps seem to amuse Byleth rather than frustrate, and so he does not mind failing in front of her. 

“Maybe for you, these _are_ better utilized as weapons,” Byleth comments after one of their lessons. Dimitri’s fingers are tangled in yarn, the square he was working on looking as if it has been through war. Byleth’s touch is gentle as she frees his hands from their prison, a small smile playing on her lips. Her hands are that of a mercenary’s—calloused and rough—but the care with which she treats him is… something else entirely. Not unwelcome, but Dimitri finds it hard to define. 

He tries to put it out of his mind. “My dreams of making my friends hand knitted scarves and blankets to keep them warm during the bitter Faerghus winters have been crushed.” 

“Commission me, then,” Byleth says. “I’ll come save you.” She does make a rather dashing hero, like one of the Elites from the stories of old. “I could be the Kingdom’s Royal Knitter.”

“You would make a better captain of the Royal Knights.” It slips from him inadvertently; he does not mean to muse out loud, although it is a thought Dimitri’s had before. He wanted Byleth to lend her strength to the Kingdom from the moment they met. Now that he’s had the opportunity to learn from her, he cannot imagine not being able to to turn to her for guidance.

Byleth pulls back and busies herself with putting everything away. The sudden distance is awkward, and he scrambles to explain himself. “Forgive me, Professor. I didn’t mean to pressure you into—“

“I doubt I’ll teach at the academy forever,” she says abruptly. Hair falls over Byleth’s face, obscuring her expression. “The Kingdom is nice, from what I remember. A good place to retire.”

It would not be wise to be too hopeful, but… “Perhaps I will see you at court one day.”

“Perhaps,” Byleth agrees, brushing her hair back. She rewards him with another smile faint upon her lips. Dimitri collects these, guards each one Byleth gives him zealously. “You will have to show me around Fhirdiad.”

Dimitri smiles back, unabashedly eager. “It would be my pleasure.” Whatever the future holds—with Byleth around, it’s sure to be bright. 

*** * * * ***

_**WYVERN MOON** _

The professor’s birthday arrives amidst the flurry of preparations for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. As leader of the Blue Lions, it falls to Dimitri by default to deliver a gift on behalf of their house. 

Obtaining it had been a long and protracted affair he had almost no part in—Mercedes and Annette were the ones who’d picked it out during a trip to town, with Ingrid and Ashe organizing the collection of funds, and Sylvain doing the purchasing, since he was the least likely to seem suspicious if discovered buying jewelry. Dedue offered to wrap it, and he’d done so elegantly before passing it on to Dimitri at the beginning of the day in order to fulfill his obligations. 

He finds Byleth outside her quarters after class with a stack of books in her arms. “Professor.” Dimitri raises an arm in greeting. “Can I speak to you in private for a moment?” 

“Of course—just one—“ She’s struggling to unlock the door, and Dimitri slides past with a murmured apology to throw it open for her. “Thank you,” she sighs, setting the books down on her desk before turning to Dimitri. He can barely make out the titles on their spines—they are all histories of the Adrestian Empire and the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, primers on advanced military tactics, and what… looks like a romance novel. _Ah._ “What did you need?”

It is an honor to be able to celebrate Byleth’s birthday with her, but in this moment, all Dimitri feels is embarrassed under the full force of her expectant gaze. “I—we—well,” he clears his throat. “We heard it was your birthday.”

Her eyes widen a little in surprise. “From whom?”

“Your father?”

She seems thoughtful. “I’m surprised he remembered.” There's a faraway look in her eyes Dimitri doesn’t want to interrupt, but he has a mission of sorts to complete.

“The class—everyone—wanted to give you this.” From the folds of his cloak, he brings out the gift and the letter he penned for her earlier. Byleth stares at it as if it’s a weapon or a small, feral animal and gingerly reaches out to take it. “Happy birthday, Professor.”

Watching her carefully unwrap the small box takes a few moments, but it is worth it to see the wonder slowly dawn on her face, like a flower blossoming. “Oh,” she breathes. “Dimitri, I—” It’s a brooch with the sigil of their house on it, a reminder of all the time the Blue Lions have spent together. Will spend together; after all, graduation is still distant. 

“We’re proud to have you as our professor,” Dimitri says after a pause. “We’re proud to be your first ever students.” 

“My firsts,” Byleth repeats. The affection in her eyes nearly bowls him over, and Dimitri finds it hard to imagine that there was a time he didn’t believe the professor cared for them all that much. He watches as she attempts to pin the brooch to her chest, but pricks herself in the process. The bead of red on Byleth’s finger seems to be more of an inconvenience than anything painful, and Dimitri offers to hold the brooch while she cleans it off. 

Once she is finished, he moves forward. “Allow me.” Byleth stiffens as Dimitri carefully pins the broach to her chest, his hands steady despite their proximity, then steps back to admire it in the light. “It looks lovely on you, Professor.”

“It _is_ lovely,” she agrees. “Thank you.” He makes no move to leave, and after a moment, Byleth asks, “Was there something else?”

“I—“ Battles are less terrifying than this. “I made this for you.” The haphazardly wrapped package he thrusts into Byleth’s hands lacks Dedue’s elegance and attention to detail, but Dimitri had done it himself in the dead of night, second guessing his decision to give this to Byleth the entire time. “The brooch is much nicer, but I—well, this is the first thing I’ve managed to ever make—thanks to your guidance, of course—and I thought you may—it’s silly.” 

Byleth tears into the wrapping and emerges with a blue square. It’s… messy, with threads of yarn sticking out of it, holes where they shouldn’t be. Her mouth twitches. “Thank you so much for this… what _is_ it?” 

Dimitri swallows a wince. “A handkerchief?” he says, then tries again. “A handkerchief.” 

Byleth is close to laughter now. “I’ll treasure it.”

“Please do not humor me, Professor.”

“I really will,” she insists. Folding the handkerchief into squares, Byleth tucks it into her pocket. “I haven’t celebrated my birthday in years, and now I have two wonderful presents. I feel spoiled.” 

“Professor…” He would not call his offering _wonderful_ , but he won’t argue with her on her birthday. “It’s not over yet,” Dimitri says, moving onward. “Mercedes and Annette are making you a cake, if I recall correctly.”

“Should I be worried?”

“No?” He trusts Mercedes. “Do join us for dinner, but please act surprised if you can. I don’t believe I was supposed to tell you about the cake.”

“I’ll practice my reaction in the mirror,” Byleth promises. As he leaves, he sees her take out the handkerchief from her pocket and chuckle as she unfolds it and holds it up to the light. 

His face red, Dimitri flees. 

*** * * * ***

_**RED WOLF MOON** _

The last people Dimitri expects—or wants—to see in the marketplace at the moment are Felix and Ingrid. Panic seizes him immediately at the sight of the two. He makes an attempt to hide from them by ducking behind a hay-filled wagon, but Ingrid spots him despite his best efforts and heads over with a grin, dragging Felix along with her. “Dimitri! It’s rare to see you here. Have you come here to visit the new merchants?” 

He straightens up with as much dignity as he can muster and shakes his head. “The professor,” Dimitri says stiffly, “seems to have run out of yarn. I was trying to find more for her.” 

His words are greeted with incredulous silence, then—“Yarn,” Felix repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Our professor sent the boar prince out on an errand for _yarn_?” 

“It’s not an errand.” Byleth rarely _asks_ him to do anything, preferring to take care of her problems herself. “I only noticed the professor had run out, and I thought she would appreciate it.”

“Uh huh.” Ingrid’s smile is mischievous as she leans forward and lowers her voice. “So it’s a surprise gift for your favorite professor?”

“She isn’t—“ 

Ingrid is relentless. “You’ve been spending a lot of time together outside of class,” she points out, her eyes all too knowing for Dimitri's comfort. 

Before he can answer, Felix bursts in, his expression thunderous. “What secret sword techniques is she showing you behind closed doors?” he demands roughly. 

“I…” Ingrid looks both amused and exasperated at Felix’s outburst. “I wish Sylvain was here so he could explain why you should _never_ say something like that again.”

“She was a mercenary with a wealth of experience she hasn’t shared with us yet.”

“That’s not why it’s odd, Felix.”

“If you will excuse me,” Dimitri interrupts, edging towards the steps of the monastery with a ball of blue yarn tucked under his arm. “I will be… leaving.” 

“Enjoy your secret sword techniques,” Ingrid calls out at his retreating back, and Dimitri speeds up in order to escape his friends and their misplaced ideas about his relationship with the professor. He’s lucky Sylvain was not around for the exchange; Dimitri shudders to think what he would’ve contributed to the conversation. A quip about a dagger, perhaps?

Though he privately believes Byleth would appreciate a dagger, Dimitri has learned something about appropriate gifts over the years. Yarn barely qualifies, and yet Byleth’s surprise and heartfelt thanks when he delivers the spoils, however, is worth his momentary embarrassment. 

*** * * * ***

_**ETHEREAL MOON** _

With the upcoming ball occupying everyone’s minds, including, unfortunately, his own, Dimitri trembles every time Byleth approaches. The Blue Lions’ representative for the White Heron Cup still needs to be chosen, and under no circumstance does he want it to be him. It’s not outright avoidance, but if he finds a mysterious reason to leave a room whenever Byleth enters, it can only be for the best. 

But he thinks of her often. The weather is steadily growing colder; Dimitri wonders if Byleth is putting her collection of woolen hats and scarves to good use. He rarely sees her on the steps outside of her quarters anymore, but that much is no surprise. The ball has everyone in the monastery running around, frazzled. Byleth is no exception. Dimitri hears from Sylvain that she has Ingrid trapped in dance practice and silently thanks the goddess it isn’t him. 

He doesn’t run into Byleth until a week before the White Heron Cup. It’s later in the day, and she is bent over a pair of knitted black gloves in the dining hall, painstakingly embroidering flowers onto them. Equal parts colourful and complicated with representations of flowers he’s never even seen, the tableau draws him closer, but Byleth is so focused on her work that he is certain she failed to notice him, until—

“Take a seat.” Byleth looks up and chuckles at the shock on Dimitri’s face. “Only if you want to, Your Highness.” Setting the gloves down on the table, she gestures to the chef. “If you came here looking for something to eat, by all means, continue.” 

Dimitri vehemently shakes his head. “I was passing by on my way to…” He’s not sure what brought him here, to be honest, but it was not the food. Whatever it may have been, it clearly wasn’t pressing. Sinking onto the bench beside Byleth, he endeavours to change the subject. “What are you doing, Professor?” 

At his question, her expression hardens. “Nothing,” she replies immediately, then exhales and rubs her temples, the corners of her eyes tight with tension. “I’m being foolish, but I was making something for my father.”

“Captain Jeralt?” 

“Yes. He likes flowers.” Her mouth pursed in thought, Byleth’s leg bounces under the table, nervous energy spilling out of her in spades. Dimitri has learned how to read the professor over the past few months, but he’s never quite seen her like this. “I think my mother liked flowers, and when she died, they were the one thing that connected my father to her. Whenever we’d visit a new region of Fódlan, he would collect unusual flowers or seeds—whatever he could get his hands on.” 

She falls silent. After some time has passed, Dimitri takes it upon himself to say something. “I am sure he will appreciate your efforts, Professor.” 

Byleth shrugs. Her mouth twists, an unhappy expression crawling onto her face. “I’ve been so angry with him for the past few months,” she admits in a small voice. Her fingers fidget, reaching for the gloves to play with a stray bit of yarn. “About all the things he’s kept from me all my life—not only about himself, but about the whole _world_.” 

He cannot say he doesn’t understand her frustrations, but… “I’m sure the captain was only trying to protect you,” Dimitri ventures. 

She laughs, but it’s a hollow, scraping sound devoid of any mirth. “I became a mercenary at _fifteen_. If he truly wanted to protect me, he would’ve kept me away from that life.” There is pain behind Byleth’s eyes, but it disappears once she shakes her head, her expression smoothing into the sort of blank mask Dimitri recognizes well from their first meeting. “He said he wants to talk to me about something after he comes back,” she continues. “Maybe he’ll finally tell me the truth about everything then.” 

“And after that?”

“After that,” Byleth says, straightening up. “I’ll give him these gloves, and forgive him.” 

“I hope everything works out, Professor.” Dimitri sincerely wishes her the best. There are many things he would like to say to his father and step-mother if he could speak with them again without the tragedy of Duscar looming over their heads. It doesn’t do to hold back and end up with a lifetime’s worth of regrets. 

“Thank you,” Byleth says. A moment later, her eyes widen. “You don’t have to listen to my woes, Your Highness,” she adds. “I won’t think any less of you if you tell me to shut up or make up an excuse to leave.” 

“I am… happy to listen, Professor.” It is impulse, and perhaps madness, but he reaches forward and covers her hand with his own. “I don’t think any less of you for it,” he echoes. 

Byleth stiffens at his touch, her lips parted to say something. But there is a shift in her gaze a moment later, and she relaxes into it. Dimitri is not sure how long the two of them remain seated in silence, but the sensation of her hands under his lingers long after he leaves. 

*** * * * ***

_**GUARDIAN MOON** _

All Dimitri has to offer the professor are some words—apologies, really, meager attempts at saying, _I understand your pain_ and _take your time_ and _I am here for you_. He wishes he were more skilled at offering comfort, wishes too that the right words would fall from his mouth and fix everything, leech all the hurt and pain he knows Byleth is experiencing. 

But instead he watches her gather the broken pieces of her heart and pile them on Jeralt’s desk with the rest of his belongings. In the end, all Dimitri can do is make a promise to stand by her through anything, until the bitter end. 

Byleth clutches Jeralt’s journal to her chest, her breathing shallow, and doesn’t respond. He can see no flicker of life in her eyes, no discernible emotion. Once it would have unnerved him, but now it only alarms. “Professor?” Dimitri probes gently, before taking his leave. 

She looks at him, her gaze empty. Past her, he spots a familiar pair of black gloves with embroidered flowers lying on the captain’s desk under a pile of what looks like junk—an empty inkwell, a broken longsword, crumpled missives with the words crossed off. Dimitri swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. 

“It’s cold outside, Professor,” he says, turning back to her. “My hands are freezing.”

It takes a moment, but she seems to comprehend what he’s saying and moves stiffly to free the gloves from the pile before turning them over to him. Their fingers brush as Dimitri takes them from her, and she shudders, a full body ripple that propels him forward in order to catch her should she crumble. 

But Byleth remains standing and closes her eyes, her hands lightly pushing Dimitri away. They are cold as ice. “Keep them,” she croaks. “They’ll be of more use to you than the dead.” 

He runs a thumb over an embroidered rose before pulling them gloves on. They are a little too big for his hands. He looks down and clenches them into fists. “I will stand by you until the bitter end for us both, Professor,” he repeats.

Dimitri can only hope she hears him. 

* * *

_**PEGASUS MOON (INTERLUDE)** _

Two years since Garreg Mach fell, and Dimitri finds himself drawn back, more skin and bones than man. Seeking shelter from the fierce winter, he hopes the stone walls are sufficient to protect him from the howling winds. The monastery is not the first place that should come to mind when he thinks of sanctuary, but he is here and it serves his purpose well enough. 

There are ghosts in this place too, swarming around him as he wanders through the monastery, demanding his attention. Memories of better times push against his ghosts, and Dimitri lets the two war with each other as he explores the abandoned grounds of what was once his temporary home. 

Somehow, he finds himself in the professor’s room. It is dusty and bare, though he sees traces of her in the calendar tacked to the wall, in the stack of books never returned to the monastery’s library. Instinct prompts him to open the chest at the foot of her bed. He barely has to dig before he finds a moth-eaten knitted blanket, a threadbare hat and a pair of gloves, socks that look all too familiar. 

Relics of a time past, but Dimitri pulls them out and slips them on bit by bit. It is cold outside, and he is _trembling_ , and—

“Why has your ghost not appeared to me, Byleth?” he says, his breath misting before him.

As always, there is no answer. Byleth has not spoken to him thus far, but it is only a matter of time before her spectre begins to haunt Dimitri as well. He does not mind as much as he expects to. Perhaps a part of him would like to see her again. 

* * *

**_GREAT TREE MOON_ **

It starts to rain. 

Byleth stands in front of him, one hand outstretched. Dimitri is—so tired, he thinks. So lost. So _broken_. What reason does he have to live beyond retribution for the dead, truly? He wants answers. Answers, and guidance, because he doesn’t know what to do anymore. 

But there is Byleth, offering him the warmth of her hand, encouraging him to take it. She glows faintly, her expression soft as she looks at him. “Dimitri,” she says tenderly. 

Her other hand gropes inside her cloak and pulls out a familiar worn handkerchief. Incompetent, ugly, the first thing he’d ever made. The first time he’d created something rather than destroyed—a lifetime ago. He never expected to see it again, but trust Byleth to hold onto things that have no meaning. 

She takes a step forward and presses it against his face, wiping the salty tears mingled with rain. “I will stand with you until the bitter end,” she says. 

He takes her hand. 

*** * * * ***

_**GARLAND MOON** _

Fhirdiad still feels like home.

Much has changed since he was last here, but Dimitri makes his way through the streets with relative ease, his eyes lighting up every time he recognizes a familiar landmark, a familiar storefront, a face that greets him with awe and admiration rather than revulsion. The people’s goodwill still feels unearned at times, but his joy at being home eclipses his misgivings. 

He’d made a promise to Byleth years ago that he would show her around Fhirdiad, but there is not enough time to give her a tour of the city before she needs to return to Garreg Mach. Still, he thinks, he can bring some part of Fhirdiad to her in the castle—a small, petty offering, but when he thinks of what Byleth might value, it is the first thing to come to mind. 

“Professor,” he says, knocking on the door to her room. At the sound of his voice, Byleth glances up from her correspondence and jumps to her feet. 

“Your Highness… Your Majesty?” Her brows furrow, his new—well, _future_ title sounding awkward coming from her mouth. 

“Dimitri,” he corrects. Have they not known each other long enough to dispense with titles? 

“Then you must stop calling me ‘Professor’,” she replies, without missing a beat. “I’m no longer your instructor.” 

He chuckles. “Should I use ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Byleth’ then?”

“ _Byleth_ will suffice.” Her expression tightens again with some unknown worry. “How can I help you?” 

And _oh_ , he understands better than anyone. With the capital retaken, the mountain of work awaiting them both is astronomical and unavoidable. No matter where he turns, there is always something else demanding his attention. Dimitri intends to shut himself in his quarters to tackle all his duties after this, but before he dives into his obligations, there is Byleth and his clumsy attempts to show his appreciation. 

“I heard you are to leave Fhirdiad soon, and I—,” he begins. The bag in his hands feels heavier now than when he brought it back from the marketplace. “I was in the city, and I—I found you some yarn.” 

Byleth looks at the bag, then at him, her expression soft. “These are hardly war supplies, Dimitri. You should’ve saved your coin.”

“I felt it was important.” _I feel you are important._ It has always been Byleth standing with him through it all. For her, he would move mountains, though she would never ask it of him. She would never ask for something so small either, but he wants to give it to her, wants to remind her of better times, of afternoons spent outside her quarters, Byleth pulling yarn out of his hair as he laments with a smile equal parts exasperated and amused. 

_Knit, purl._

One day, Dimitri thinks, he would like to pick up Byleth’s ancient knitting needles again himself. 

With unsteady hands, Byleth accepts his offering and, for the first time in over five years, she _smiles_ in a way that reminds Dimitri of the brightest star in all of Fódlan. 

**Author's Note:**

> this whole idea was born after i read some articles about how soldiers and sailors would sometimes knit in their down time, and it didn't feel like that much of a stretch to say a mercenary might as well. 
> 
> anyway!! i have not written a fic in _so long_ , but here we are! this was an... attempt... not sure how i feel about it yet but it sure was an attempt!


End file.
